Assured
by GhostRelic
Summary: Created for asoiafkinkmeme. Prompt: Fingering; Tywin feels the need to ensure that his investment in the Stark girl is still... intact. :::: Pride & Pack: Part I :::: [COMPLETE]
1. Meet

When she walks into the small council chamber in The Tower of The Hand, her betrothed doesn't even look at her. He simply senses her presence and clears away the stacks of ravens and parchments he was reading prior to her arrival.

Even though he is observing her solely through his peripheral, Tywin Lannister's authority is unquestioned.

"Lady Sansa, I'll make this brief," there's no malice in his words, but even a simple statement from him makes her tremble. "You understand we are to be wed on the morrow?" Somehow it doesn't come across as a question.

"Y-yes my lord," it's all she can do to not weep in front of him.

She has spent most of her tears already, last evening, after she was set aside by an atrocious boy-king only to be retrieved by his grandfather.

"Good. I'm sure you understand the importance of this union," his glare is intense, he might as well be holding a blade to her throat. "It is, of course, of benefit for both House Lannister and House Stark to be bound by marriage; our sons will rule both the west and the north, of that you can be assured," his tone holds no sentiment.

The thought of spawning children with this man terrifies her in a way that makes her feel as though her life is ending.

She was about to correct him; remind him that her brother Robb rules in the North and only _his_ sons will hold claim, when Lord Tywin's eyes flash from formal to something she can't name, back to clinical and unforgiving.

"However, I require assurances of my own," again, devoid of emotion, "I have heard varying accounts of your treatment in your time here and, while I'm sympathetic, I neither have time nor patience to investigate every grievance in order to determine both your plight and your virtue."

She only hears the word _virtue_ and her courtesies respond on their own, "I've not been dishonoured my lord-"

"So you say my lady, however _trust_ is a game best left to those of a simple mind."

He regards her word as a noble-born lady as though it's worthless.

"I-I can be... A Septa can..." speaking to Tywin Lannister about matters of a feminine nature is as easy as igniting snow into flames.

A sharp look ends her stuttering attempts at clarification, "Again my lady," he says carefully. An impact on every syllable, "My trust begins and ends with my own vision, I will be attending to the matter myself."

_Attending the... matter... himself?_

"My lord, that's highly improper," the words are flung before she can consider them. She has just called The Lion of Casterly Rock improper, an infraction that will surely see her put to death. Lowering her eyes, "I apologize my lord-"

"There's no need to apologize," he's sincere but still commanding. She meets his eyes as he speaks further, "You are correct, but your choice is to either allow my examination, and we will marry tomorrow; or don't, remain a lady of the court, and be left to the whims of your king."

Suffering humiliation privately or publicly is not much of a choice. But considering she has already endured the latter, she feels she could surely endure the former. Ultimately, the conclusion of each scenario is horrid, marry Tywin Lannister or become a mistress to Joffrey; this is simply the lesser of two evils.

...She hopes.

She squares her shoulders, lifts her chin and speaks with clarity and confidence, "Carry on my lord."

His expression gives nothing away. He regards her for several more heartbeats, for a foolish moment she hopes that he can see what he needs from there, until he motions for her to step closer; like he was ordering in a servant to refill his wine. The notion is beneath her, but her feet move of their own accord.

As she approaches his side, he stands briefly to push back his chair slightly from the table. Sitting back down he envelopes her wrist in his hand, not ungently, and pulls her until she is standing in front of him.

"Please remove your smallclothes, my lady," the pleasantries don't detract from the vulgarity of the request.

She is looking over his head, focusing on a random point on the wall behind him, trying to school the blush she feels creeping up her neck. Tears pooling in her eyes before she blinks them back and remains intent on that spot on the wall. She proceeds to bunch her skirts up and over her hands in order to get to her undergarment. Sansa finds she has to look at what she was doing if she wants to strip the article quickly, and in doing so, she notices Lord Tywin looking away.

She considers that if she was to perform this same task with an audience of Kingsguard, they would certainly be watching her every move; lecherously in fact.

His modesty is confusing, negated even, considering what he's about to do.

Tywin regards her again when he's heard her skirts still, and gives a near-whispered thank you.

She feels his hands rest on her hips, not groping or pawing at her; gripping her until he has her lifted and sitting on the table.

When he places his fingers around her ankles she inhales quickly through her nose, surprised at the sudden intimacy.

"Lady Sansa look at me," his tone even, but softer; she follows his order. "It may seem to the contrary, but I promise you," his voice shifting to ominous, "that your character will not be brought into question."

In a juxtaposed gesture, he starts rubbing small circles where his thumbs are resting.

She understands quite well that to question her reputation would mean questioning his, but it was hard for that to sink in when she was only registering the feeling of his hands. They were soothing, and_ that_ was most frightening of all.

Propped on the table her vantage point is higher. It's something new to look down on anyone, let alone Lord Tywin. She wouldn't say she feels any more in control, but the perspective is refreshing. He's still looking at her with unbidden intensely, but at this angle the green of his eyes wasn't as fierce.

Sansa finds it in herself to let her legs relax in his clutch, his thumbs still drawing circles.

Tywin lifts her ankles slowly, allowing her to brace her hands behind her for support. When she's fully stable, he places each of her feet on their respective chair arms.

Her knees fall together naturally, still covered by her gown. She's lost eye contact with him because of her new position but she doesn't need to see him to know that his face is stoic and his glare is made of pure intimidation.

She feels his hands start to move from her ankles upward, gathering her skirts as they go. He makes no move to spread her legs once the fabric is past her knees, he just keeps pushing until it's bundled at her middle, then removes his hands. She's left with the back of her gown still under her, and that suits her just fine, she'd rather not sit bare on the table top.

Sansa can feel the warmth of his breath where her legs are pressed together when his hands are again making a trail from her ankles, up her calves and shins, rounding out until he's palming her knees.

She knows what's to happen next.


	2. Assured

The pressure he applies to spread her legs is restrained. She doesn't fight him, simply follows his lead, her thighs open wider as his hands move smoothly down the fleshy inner span; stopping midway.

They make eye contact again, and while he's not as flushed as she is, his eyes remaining placid, she can see that his breathing has deepened.

A certain kind of power is obtained when you see a god waver. Tywin Lannister, for all his supremacy, is only a man, and if someone were to tell her this, before, she wouldn't have believed it. Witnessing it for herself, though -_ trust begins and ends with ones own vision_.

She's the one watching him now. Memorizing every twitch of his mouth and blink pattern he makes as he visually assesses her most private of areas.

When he takes in her gaze again he doesn't even move his head, he simply flicks his eyes to meet her. His intensity has deepened and he looks as though he's about to consume her, completely. She finches, but not entirely out of fear.

He keeps his left hand on her thigh and slowly moves his right toward the heat at her center. Refocusing his attention on that part of her, he uses his middle and forefinger to part her folds.

Sansa swallows back the mortification that threatens to surface, instead choosing to watch his jaw clench and the edges of his mouth almost hint at a smile. He flicks his stare at her again as he removes his fingers from the lower edge of her folds and absentmindedly moves his hand back to her thigh.

It's when she half moans, half gasps, that he realizes the backs of his knuckles have brushed the little nerve bundle at the top of her slit.

It's her turn to breath heavily. Lord Tywin takes his cue from her reaction; every movement with a purpose, at a speed that ensures she is not only watching him but understanding his actions as well. He first raises his hand to his mouth and licks the pad of his thumb, then returns it to her center; his fingers splaying in the little patch of coarse auburn hair, his thumb sliding over and around her nub.

The noise that's ripped out of her is primal, she doesn't know she's made it until the reverberation off the walls is thrown back at her. But before she can even think about it, her head lolls back on its' own and her chest pushes out air that her throat forms into moans.

She's at the mercy of the man touching her, and he knows it.

His thumb moves in a steady cadence, circling her sensitive bump then dipping into the folds where his fingers were before.

She's getting overwhelmed, a tingling heat is building low in her belly and his thumb now feels slick, it's moving easily in and over her cleft, and _that_ good feeling is crashing into the other.

The hand he's kept on her thigh was now noticeably kneading into her skin and muscle. What would normally be an uncomfortable grip is now just another sensation added to the mix. When it seems he notices his grasp on her, he loosens it, she quickly presses her own hand over his as if to instruct him to continue; he twines his fingers in hers instead. An act that forces her to look at him.

His face is no longer wooden, it has an element of vulnerability and in catching her looking, he untangles both his hands and uses a quick fluid motion to lift her, turn her, and set her down again on his lap.

She's facing outward, her back against his chest, her legs on either side of his; trying to regain her bearings when his hand is back at the slick wet heat of her. He's doing no more than holding his palm and fingers against her; his other hand had clamped onto her hip and was pushing and pulling her pelvis in a motion and rhythm that reestablished the achiness deep inside.

Her hip will have bruises, of that she's sure, but the discomfort is, again, nothing more than an enhancement to what she's already feeling.

Sansa puts her hands out in front of her, gripping the edge of the table at the onslaught of what's been building since Lord Tywin first touched her. As her vision blurs and her hearing blocks out everything except the blood rushing in them, she anchors her arms and pushes back, grinding herself on his hand and his lap, looking for every possible point of friction she can find.

Through it all, as she spirals into the best feeling she's ever had, she can hear him groan her name, feel him buck up into her, meeting her desperate grinding with his own.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Composure comes back to her in pieces; hearing, vision, control of her extremities. Her fingers are still digging into the table in front of her and she can see where the polished wood has been scraped in her frenzy. When her breathing evens out, it's then that she accounts for the man behind her.

His arms have wrapped themselves around her middle, not restricting, just holding there; and his forehead is resting on her upper back, she can feel the humidity of his ragged breath through the material of her dress.

She can piece together that whatever she experienced, he must have as well. She can't put a name to it, but knowing it was at the hands of Lord Lannister utterly conflicts with how she's feeling about it.

Sansa moves to rise, mustering as much dignity she can to wriggle off Lord Tywin's lap; he offers no resistance, his arms unfolding themselves from around her. She notices his hands stay close, his fingers touching her dress so lightly she wouldn't have known they were there if she hadn't swayed into them as she rose.

Standing, her back to him, positioned between him and the table; she uses one hand to steady herself and the other to sweep flat the skirts of her gown. Trying her best to be as presentable as possible for her walk back to her chambers.

She straightens, making no effort to leave.

Sansa takes a few moments before testing her voice, "Can I conclude you're assurances have been met my lord?"

She'd never admit that Lord Tywin ever smiled, but the voice of his soft reply indicated as much, "Yes my lady, exceedingly so."

Feeling somewhat triumphant, Sansa allows herself to smile inwardly as she takes her leave, sparing not even a glance behind her.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He watches her walk away, and continues to stare at the door once she's gone.

Tywin wants to admonish himself for being weak, for losing control, but he can't seem to be bothered.

He's brought out of his contemplation when he notices a small white square on the table in front of him. It's only on closer inspection that he notices the square is actually fabric, with a small ribbon that's been tied in a bow. He's confused only momentarily until he smiles broadly, genuinely, in recognition.

There in front of him, folded daintily, as only the thoughtfulness of a maiden would make them, are the smallclothes of Sansa Stark.

Slipping the gift from the table and running his thumb over the delicate stitching, he speaks knowingly, "Assured indeed."


End file.
